


The Church of What's Happening Now

by calicokat



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, underage sex depending on your point of refence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-24 23:30:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calicokat/pseuds/calicokat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale returned to Beacon Hills. Stiles slapped him on the shoulder and told him he missed him.</p><p>That was two weeks ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Church of What's Happening Now

Derek never has beer. Stiles doesn't necessarily want beer, but Derek is the kind of person a person would have a beer with, both parties taking drinks to fill the weighted silences the wolf leaves in lieu of conversational acknowledgement. An argument from ambience, even if Derek can't get drunk or doesn't like the taste.

They're sipping bottles of Coke instead. Not the same thing, but Stiles went and said yes he wanted something to drink.

He's comfortable in an armchair and has his feet up on Derek and Cora's coffee table in their apartment tactically distanced from Peter's apartment. Derek, sitting on his couch, doesn't seem to care. Cora's out. With Lydia and Allison, even. That's shocking; also not. Somewhere past the Hale anger and sarcasm Cora Hale wants to be young. Cora spent her years away lonelier and even more on the defense than Laura and Derek, those siblings only a phonecall or text message away from each other.

Derek and now Cora's initial hostility to strangers and new territory isn't for show. They'll rip faces off. That doesn't mean Cora doesn't _want_ to trust. She's a wolf or crissake. Stiles got from watching Derek wage war with his paranoia – not that he's called a truce – how serious the craving for a pack is.

Now Cora has one.

"So you've been in town two weeks. Scouted any hot new psychopaths to do the dirty with?" he asks instead of 'How's accepting your Scottdestiny going?' Stiles understands that one, too. Derek couldn't hang in Scott's territory unless he could accept Scott as his Alpha. Losing his own pack, including losing Isaac to Scott, emotionally mutilated him.

"Yeah. Two," Derek says back, sipping on his Coke.

Stiles' eyes widen even as he smiles.

"Ha ha. You're kidding, right? I need to know you're kidding because your only two adult relationships being with remorseless killers is a coincidence but three will be a pattern."

Derek looks on Stiles with suspicion.

"Why do you think those are my only two 'adult relationships'?"

"Because you're asking me what gave it away instead of correcting me," Stiles points out, straightforward and sober. He's got Derek there. His smile bounces back. He gesticulates with his Coke. "It's cool. What do I know? I remain hymenated despite the clear and present danger of being that ritually pure." He lifts his brows, confiding: "It turns out prostitutes are, A, expensive and, B, don't have sex with minors. For being a liberal oasis you would think California could follow most of the country and world and recognize my ability to consent was fully developed at sixteen give or take a few provisions."

Derek is listening; doesn't have anything to say to that. Stiles sees an imagined replay of Stiles trying and failing to negotiate with a prostitute playing out across his brows, in the twitch of his lips.

The human shrugs. That embarrassing scenario is not the subject at hand: Derek's sex life.

"Do I think you had reckless one night encounters while you lived away from Beacon Hills before and probably while you came with Cora attached? Sure. And then you angsted in the lonely night while she or he or they lay asleep about how you could never love again because Kate and then Jennifer was a giant douchebag."

"Funny. I thought I'd gotten over the desire to punch you in the face."

He's missed Derek. The wolf adds a special something to his life. For example, he's the only person who follows every word when he gets excited. Scott has been known to tune out. The biting remark ratio shot down over their year of acquaintance. Disbelieving looks remain probable.

Stiles holds up a finger, tilting his head in toward Derek.

"I want you to know you can have reckless one night sex with me any time. A kiss with a fist is better than having my guts spilled on a pagan altar for the glory of whoever shows up that week."

Derek never considered Stiles a prospect of sexual conquest in his entire existence according to the not-appalled-but-concerned, stunned look on his face.

"You're not serious."

It sounds more like a question.

Stiles' heart stutters; breath catches. His stomach becomes a Twizzler. 

"Why? Why do you ask?" he says, absolutely failing to leave off sounding opportunistic. His brain performs some fast deduction. Hot, discreet, available, aware of the danger to be averted, _available,_ not Scott. Prognosis: Worth further evaluation. Seduction? Negative. Stiles sucks at seduction. Throwing Derek off calibration? Green light. 

Stiles drops his capped Coke, hearing it fizz on impact. Derek watches him, frozen in amazement, from closing the short distance between them to straddling Derek's thighs, hands fisted in the wolf's shirt. 

"Oh my _god,_ Derek." Stiles' voice is as stone sober as his face, bullheaded intensity backing him up, eyes locked on Derek's startled gaze. "Do me hard. Do me rough. Do me **now.** " The tension electrifying their bodies would prevent the disaster at Jurassic Park. Hook, line... Better let up before Derek breaks. Stiles' eyebrows rise in innocence. "Are you more of a power bottom? I can handle that."

The growl rumbling off the apartment walls coupled with a harsh, abrupt meeting between Stiles's back and the edge of a skidding coffee table that makes an awful, elephant-like sound that can't be good for the floor's finish all cut off simultaneously as Stiles's ass hits the wood.

"Get off me," Derek chastises what Stiles would like to point out is way late. They haven't broken off staring at each other. Negotiation on. Stiles asks himself if he is really, seriously, absolutely willing to have buddy sex with Derek today, right now, to sully his immortal soul for the sake of his own survival and both of them getting off.

Yes. Yes, he is.

"Have you considered your failed sex life goes hand in hand with your inability to _shut up?_ " Derek snaps.

For a second Stiles thinks Derek's being a jerk, but the tone's mixed up. Right. Right, when was Lydia actually able to kiss him? When he was physically incapacitated. Heather had, on the other hand, not taken nervous babbling for an answer. Why can't Derek kiss him? Because his mouth is a shifting target.

Stiles launches himself up from the floor, making up lost ground in a few long strides, letting himself drop through the air to straddle Derek's thighs, sore backside or not, because they're basically the same size but his weight is nothing. (It'd be great if Derek ever considered that doesn't work in reverse before being maimed or rendered unconscious.)

He pushes forward, mashes his lips into Derek's and hopes his own body has any idea what it's doing. Derek's hands rest on his waist; he lets Stiles hold his head in his hands. The wolf's mouth makes up the difference, the lips caressing Stiles' parting to cover his, sucking softly, guiding, pressing wetly to his closed mouth, stroking in demonstration, leading Stiles into a natural rhythm of meeting and parting. Stiles is ecstatic, which technically means he's in ecstasy, a different, liberating electric thrill charging his body, light-headedness and the broken passage of time between starts and sudden slow motion interrupting the pace of his overclocked mind.

"You are so, so not going to regret this," he mutters while his thumbs stroke Derek's close-shorn beard, the ears that can easily elongate, the soft hair Derek keeps trimmed because despite being a candidate for monkhood ninety percent of the time and bombing the other ten he clearly knows how to turn on the heat to get what he wants. Derek revs the inhuman vocal chords, growling as he kisses Stiles again, vibrations traveling through Stiles' body. "—shutting up," he swears close to the wolf's mouth.

Derek can bite him with impunity now for a range of values of 'bite'.

Some of which sound really good right now. (Some of which don't and never will.)

Warm palms are running up his sides, over his shirt. Fingertips dig into his back. He's pulled closer to Derek's chest. A tongue – smooth, slippery – brushes his as they relax deeper into their meeting of mouths. Stiles makes a noise that isn't strictly manly. He makes a lot of noises like that in other situations; it doesn't slow him down.

He's getting hard behind the fly of his jeans, against the fabric of his boxers. He's not sitting close enough to know if Derek is. He can make an educated guess. Derek's hands get active on his sides, sliding back down to push up again, higher and further up his back, over and again with the flux of their slowly swaying bodies.

Stiles is going to get laid. With Derek. Not a possibility he has never considered. He's seventeen. He's horny. He's bi. Derek wears tight shirts and butt-flattering jeans and leather and has like sixteen abs. Okay, he doesn't. That would be gross. But he's ripped. He's not sure how bi Derek is. This could be more like a favor. A sexy favor with tactical value.

"Bedroom," Derek orders; Stiles has no argument. He scoots off him, gets to his feet, uncertain of his legs. Derek looks back toward the kitchen. Stiles questions him with his face. "I don't have any lube," the wolf says, stepping past him to go find god knows what.

"Slightly uncool! Frightening!" Stiles calls after him, not positive where the bar on lube is set for the werewolf.

Bedroom. He's going to Derek's bedroom. Not new territory. He was there last week, flung himself down on the bed, hands folded behind his head, complimented him on living in a real person home. The wolf was covered in blood. So was the interior of the Jeep. With wolf blood. Derek can get a lot of places faster running, leaping fences, skirting along roofs, but then something punctures him repeatedly and maybe he needs a ride home. At a prior and unknown juncture, without noticing the change, Stiles became allowed to see him in, or check on him, or put a hand on his shoulder while he suffered loss. Friend things. Bro things.

Stiles climbs onto the bed on his hands and knees, twisting around, letting himself fall onto the pillow, into the comforter, like last week except not at all, the memory of Derek's hands still alive on his body while he waits. Soon Derek's at the door, wagging a bottle of olive oil with his own questioning look.

"Very Mediterranean. You've got several thousand years precedent backing you there," Stiles affirms. Now Derek just looks concerned about him again. Stiles shrugs. He's searched 'alternate lubricants'. He hasn't tried them all. Derek sets the bottle on his actual dresser he actually owns and searches a drawer for, there they are, condoms. 

"Polyisoprene," he says. He sets those next to the bottle. 

"What you're saying is you never know what you're gonna use for lube. Buy lube. _I'll_ buy you lube," Stiles says. It is not his first concern right now, but Stiles pieces the clues together like he does. Derek knows oil based lubricants dissolve latex condoms and that Stiles would otherwise launch a slew of questions about the composition of the condoms. Derek clearly has any homosex that he has at other dudes' apartments. Won't risk them not having condoms. Five'll get Stiles ten most of the time Derek won't tolerate anything but disappearing out the window before they wake up.

Stiles' brain switches off in the middle of evaluating being a guy having sex with Derek in Derek's apartment. The wolf strips his shirt off over his head and casts it aside. Ungf. That'd be the word. _Definitely_ not strictly a bro thing, sexy favor or not. Stiles inhales deep looking at cut pecs, a deep body with muscles stacked on top of ribs and shoulders which are all Stiles remotely compares on but he likes to think that's because Derek is just older. Stiles is the one who needs to put on muscle for his survival. Later there will be new hormones.

Right now there are _all kinds_ of hormones. All the hormones he needs today.

Derek tilts his head, just looks at him, pale eyes critical but calm and on Stiles'. Stiles has never wanted anything more than for Derek to get on him now please in his entire life, sucks his lower lip into his mouth, meets Derek stare for stare while he hauls in air. A split second that felt like way longer. Now Derek has slunk up the bed, animal in motion, sunk down, a flash of time lost to excitement. He's kissing him again and Stiles just lets him, pressing back with just his mouth, licking into it like a puppy, eyes shut, still sprawled like he landed.

The better part of a minute passes biting at each other's lips, exploring each other's, uh, recesses with their tongues. Stiles grunts instead of commenting how much he severely enjoyed that, puts his hands on Derek's body now. This is familiar territory. His hands have been most of these places under not remotely similar circumstances. Arousal turns it upside down, drowns Stiles in the illusion of miles of flawless skin, of mountains and valleys. He's seen this body shot up, lacerated, stabbed, crushed, paralyzed and rotting to death. Derek has been a werewolf his whole life. There's not a scar on him. 

Stiles would apologize that a lot of him is pasty and comparatively soft but obviously Derek does not care because hands are traveling his chest, his shoulders, his sides, nails are raking down his abdomen. Nope. No caring. And then there's Derek's dick, a great dick that isn't totally intimidating – when viewed from a distance – so Stiles knows unless Derek violates laws of nature in his area the size is distorted by proximity, the heat coming off it exaggerated, the way it's digging into his hip…Nope, it's definitely digging into his hip that hard, which is reciprocal.

He struggles out of his own shirt, lets Derek fling it somewhere. How did he not realize the guy was this beautiful? Like _this_ beautiful. Like Lydia beautiful. The actually almond shaped eyes, the little mole under his lower lip, his eyebrows (luxurious comes to mind), his cheekbones, which, _damn_ — Horny. Really horny.

He whines when Derek gets up, slides off the end of the bed, steps out of his shoes and peels his socks off. The carnal intensity on his face is more than Stiles can field. He closes his eyes while his stomach cavorts, as Derek pulls off Stiles' own sneakers, same with his socks. He hears Derek's belt coming off, the clank of the buckle, the leather sliding through loops. Thinks _Shit, fuck, shit_ because he is so, so hard right now but the thought of actually getting to take his dick out with another human being – sort of – has bursts of light going off on the back of his eyelids.

He is so totally getting laid.

\----

In the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and two cabinets, Derek asked himself if this was the worst idea he ever had. That's not even a possibility, even if he ended the day getting arrested.

Just pants now, Derek in jeans and Stiles in wrinkled khakis. Underwear, too, fine, that counts. Stiles makes noises that all carry pleas. He's sensually responsive, moreso than anybody Derek's taken to bed, or to the ground. The wolf's never thought that way about the jabbering, gesturing, neurotic cyclone that's Stiles before, but he can't say he's surprised. Stiles tastes clean, but like cheap soap. He showered after lacrosse practice. Texted: _You busy?_ which means he's probably dodging Scott's house today because of FBI presence.

The pounding of Stiles' heart convinces Derek not to push it. Pants stay on. 

There's young, smooth skin under his hands, naturally elastic, and lips a lot less terrible at kissing, now, than they were seven minutes ago plying his own. Derek's body's responding to the raw enthusiasm, to hands that pause to closely explore a muscle, a nipple, and then launch back into the same mission of comprehensive exploration they started on. Stiles' arousal, the scent of his crotch, the scent beneath his arms despite scented deodorant – that's not as juvenile as when Derek met him, is slowly changing day by day. Derek's body answers in kind, flooding the air with intense sexual interest he never conceived of being stoked by Stiles; even Stiles can smell that.

Derek knows all Stiles' scents: sweating, bleeding, turned on, afraid, covered with dirt, the scent of his tears, his breath, the smells of bodily functions Stiles might not be thrilled his nose keeps track of. Thoughts, memories of the boy rapidly bring to mind an encyclopedia of olfactory impressions. Two hundred and eighty million olfactory receptors force priority. Like any carnivore he loses color vision for motion vision when he calls on his canine side. He has additional memories of Stiles. A flurry of unpredictable spasms. Doesn't think the boy knows how hard it can be not to bite him. Only deer, rabbits, mice, raccoons are a storm of twitches like that.

He drags his tongue up the boy's chest, strips off the first sweat rising to his skin. He's grateful for the quiet, just Stiles' inhalation. It'll be his own fault if he lets the boy fall back to thinking. He nips a pectoral, dragging his teeth closed against it without a pinch. That wrings a noise of gratitude out of Stiles' throat. He chuckles to himself, laps at a nipple, swiping up the underside of its erect tissue. He glances up the body underneath him, at the pink lips parted and white gleam of teeth, at the eyebrows rising from the center upward, surprise comingled with bliss. Committing, he slides further down Stiles' body, slicking the trail of hairs leading down to the body's navel with passes of his tongue.

Emotion blindsides him.

Not something as easy as guilt. He's not going to let Stiles die as a virgin; if he walked out that door and someday they found him ritually butchered Derek would hold himself responsible. In that there's only Purpose. Drive. Arousal. Attraction. And the knowledge that tomorrow, the day after, all their future days he'll be Stiles' first, but this doesn't feel like something to bring them closer than they already are – except physically.

It shouldn't hurt, but it's not like Isaac shows up at his apartment, or Scott, or Allison or Lydia. It's unlikely they will unless they need something. _Stiles is his best friend._ That foregrounds itself sudden and mercilessly. Maybe he has been for a long time. Stiles was there when Boyd died, asked about Paige, listened to him talk about Kate, held him accountable and still came back for him in a storm wrecked hospital... At that and everything else, Stiles had zero competition. Still has, Cora as emotionally disjointed as he is. He had friends once. He had his whole family. He formed a pack. He's had lovers. How did he end up with no one but a boy in his teens he can give so little back to?

He kisses Stiles below the belly button, above the waistband of his boxers, the waistline of his pants. Stiles' back arches sharply. Stiles curses, says "Derek" with begging inflection, praises how hot he is when he sucks at his navel…that's not violating the gag order, has Derek reeling; getting more of this skin is all he can think about. Derek undoes the button of Stiles' fly with his thumb, teeth unreliable except to nip that flat muscle above it as he pulls down the zipper, hears every tooth parting.

"Get the lube, man," Stiles says, flushed pink. Derek's mind reassembles, catches the implications. Stiles wants to take his own pants and boxers off. For that not to be a big event. He meets his eyes, nods obediently, breaking away and climbing off the bed. He can hear Stiles getting out of his clothes behind him. Derek's own cock rests scorching and heavy in his fly. He undoes button and zipper with his back to Stiles, pushing off jeans and underwear together. He hefts the bottle of olive oil speculatively, picks up the box of condoms. He doesn't think Stiles realizes how this is going to go.

Derek stops when he turns around. There's Stiles, face, neck and shoulders blushing, young muscles as strong or stronger in his thighs as his shoulders. He does a lot of running. His cock is long, flushed and cut, balls tightening underneath it, the scent of precum stronger in the open air, sweet and mild compared to cum.

Molten anticipation flows into Derek's cock, hisballs. Standing here with condoms and a condiment Derek risks provoking a long break for the boy's laughter if he goes and says Stiles is gorgeous, that Stiles is the most fuckable thing he's seen in a lifetime – he swallows against his dry mouth, instead; gets back to the bed.

He passes his burden off to Stiles before he climbs back onto the mattress. He nods to the sex facilitators, speaks with his eyes and his tone as much as his words. "You're trying to lose your virginity. Ritually. Be sure."

Stiles gapes, eyes falling to Derek's crotch; snapping back up to meet his eyes. Derek nods. Floored, Stiles looks like he needs a minute to build up to it. Derek has time to imagine. Imagine the youth on top of him, awkwardly finding the pace; imagine coaxing him on with kissing, soft but escalating.

Stiles looks from one hand to another.

"But lesbians still—" He catches Derek's scoff of annoyance. "Right. Covering the bases. With my penis. Because I'm a man"

Derek catches himself laughing. Stiles grins. The wolf shakes his head. Stiles defines hopeless, but against the odds he's still alive. Stiles frees his hands up, setting his aids among the pillows. They get the covers pulled down. The only light is the sunlight from the windows lighting the room up white, exaggerating how pale Stiles is compared to the moles that speckle his skin and the blush on him. Derek's still tuned in to his heart pounding in his narrow chest, hears him suck nervous salivation to the back of his mouth and swallow.

Derek is seriously fine with anal – with humans, at least. 'Seriously fine' comes with the territory when his ass is indestructible. 'Top' or 'bottom' he's always cared a hell of a lot more about making a connection, pretending for a few hours something like that could really be part of his life...breaking it and leaving. Stiles pinned him in under a minute and just a couple sentences.

This is no fantasy, fragile, shattered by the light of dawn. Stiles isn't going anywhere. Not afterwards, not in his future, not in his past when he really, really wanted him to be. Stiles reaches over, kisses him. Derek eases himself onto his back, drawing the covers up and the boy down with him. 

Despite assurances, his earlier unsettling feeling rises up. Stiles lies over him, their legs stretched out, hitched to one another's at the knees, the tickle of hairs loud on Derek's acutely sensitive skin. A hand smooths across his beard, the exploratory touch of fingertips grazes over his chest to turn into a hand sliding between his back and the bed, the boy's lips suckle his without falling prey to arhythm, their heads tilted askew. 

He wants to pretend— 

Wrong person. Wrong place. Wrong year.

Stiles breaks off, brow riddling, accusatory.

"Are you angsting about how alone you are while you're having sex with me?"

Derek meets his eyes with disbelief.

"You mean while a seventeen year old is using me for completely illegal sex because prostitutes turned him down?"

Stiles' eyes roll, so does his head, rolling and weaving, his typical exaggeration. He throws one hand up, the other pressed to Derek's naked chest.

"Illegal in _California._ Derek. You're not invisible in mirrors. You've noticed you're liquid smut that I would like to get all over me for vales of Please." The wolf seriously doesn't know how to respond to that, but then Stiles isn't done. "You're an idiot. We're pack. That's why you're in bed with me. Thank you, I hope you get off. 'Spend more time with Derek so he doesn't spend it all crying into his pillow' is officially inducted into my top five priorities."

It's not the most intimate thing anybody's ever said to him. (Understatement.) Even so, the fear of meaninglessness melts off. There's nothing to pretend. He's allowed to 'get off'. He takes a plunge, changes gears to his own speed – not teenage fumbling in the sheets – kisses Stiles exactly how he wants: slow lingering kisses as he brings Stiles' body closer, rolls up into it, waves of smoothly flexing muscles. 

"Okay," Stiles breathes after moments, barely drawing apart, wide-eyed but sexually intoxicated.

Derek crushes his fear that he went one step too far, asked for too much intimacy from the hyperactive human who can be surprisingly cold for somebody so young, lies and manipulates in ways Derek can't. Stiles exhales and reengages. The soft touches, the care, the reduction in speed and in energy burned – here's someone new, unfamiliar, emotional, offering consolidation with his body in a way Derek didn't imagine Stiles even could. He meets him with gratitude; suddenly they're in the territory of making love. He wants to drink Stiles' moan from his throat as he strokes his hair in pace with the casual grind, finds the boy in motion with him, taking time to taste Derek's mouth, pressing down on him in reciprocation.

No chance this is the gear Stiles gets off in. Stiles separates the moment he gets antsy. Derek imagines holding him under him with his weight and his strength and torturing him with intimate physicality until he surrenders. 

Just a thought.

Virgin or not once the kid gets to work he has no trouble with the condom or with slathering his cock in olive oil. He looks to Derek, 'What now?' on his face.

"If I was a human, you might want to stretch me out, help me relax. Otherwise you can do some pretty mean damage," Derek says, matter of fact. Stiles listens attentively. Derek smirks at the focus and purpose he's wearing, the overeager teenage boy sidelined by the survivor like in combat. "I'm relaxed. You push? I'll give. You're not capable of hurting me."

Thankfully Stiles doesn't take that as a challenge to surmount, nods in understanding instead. Derek watches him running the scenario through his agile mind. Something to be said for Stiles, once he has a plan he goes straight to it, visibly intimidated but purposeful. Derek swiftly shares the case of nerves, Stiles feeding it to him. His head falls back, baring his neck; he presses his shoulders into the mattress, exposing his chest, even as he pulls his legs up, belly vulnerable as Stiles lowers himself back down on him with a look of determination. His fleeting act of submission half-deliberate, half-instinctual, making himself a non-threat shoots a sense of vulnerability through him, absurd or not. 

Stiles grows more level headed without recognizing why, the ever-present threat of Derek's inhuman prowess siphoned away. He's all determination as he works out lining his cock up, pressing it in between the cheeks of Derek's ass twice before he hits the spot, first the head of his cock pressing in, a pause, then his cock pressing in. Derek closes his eyes not because he wants to miss Stiles' face. Because submission is a feedback loop, self-reinforcing. Not one that he ever induces. One that never takes over. _Definitely_ not in bed. Stiles has literally never been safer from him than this instant in time.

He could completely fuck up and Derek would whine in his throat and wait him out. 

"Oh _fuck,_ " the boy says, not because he fucked up, groaning on top of him. Derek sheds the self-hypnosis, eyes open, muscles primed, head lowered, advantaging him with a better view. It's an awesome view, Stiles over him, panting through his lips again, overwhelmed by a slew of emotions, searching Derek's eyes for reciprocity. Finding it. Stiles may be a human but his bodily handily enough works out what feels _right._

Stiles so clearly can't believe whose ass he's thrusting into. Derek gives him a lazy, lopsided smile; reaches up to brush a thumb across his cheek. Stiles laughs, grins, looks wicked as he lets himself enjoy himself. He's got a decent sized dick. Derek's own floods him with pleasure, reward, while Stiles' plunges in and out of his hips. His body flexes on the mattress, hips drawing smooth circles beneath the covers, stroking the cock thrusting inside him. Stiles lets out a startled croak.

They're touching each other, hands gliding across skin. It's all one complex sensation to Derek bound up with a pair of lust-blown brown eyes. The myriad scents, the sloppy sound of thrusting into a wet body, hearing and feeling Stiles' pulse, the emotions – appreciation, close affection their own feedback loop…

Stiles comes, mouth agape, eyes squeezed tight, Derek guiding him through it with meaningful touches, memorizing his face, the blush that's spread over his shoulders, the scent of olive oil, semen, skin, sweat soaked armpits, of his own anal glands carried the condom, the thick, pervasive smell of male arousal. Stiles stares into him, woozy and enamored.

Derek's hand is on his own cock without forethought, their body sweat easing masturbation, all his thoughts on this deceptively innocent face, undeniably knowing more than it tells, silently admiring without mooning. He shudders as he comes, legs still tucked up, ass still holding Stiles' dick. Stiles grins; proprietary gloating. The first time anybody's gotten off on him, cum shared between them.

Suddenly Derek's self-conscious in a way that draws his brows toward the center of his forehead. He just jerked off under a high school student.

Stiles only looks prouder, and smug. Like a smug little bastard.

Derek doesn't have to process that because Stiles kisses him, pouring on friendly gratitude and affection that Derek shares, reciprocates effortlessly. He loves Stiles. Not with new-minted infatuation, or only one way. It runs deeper, is more important than that. He's never put words to it and he's never had to. It amplifies his protective urges when he sees Stiles in danger. It renders his scent part of a household. It means he feels safer with Stiles near him, draws power from it like Stiles was any other member of the pack. It's a culmination of the multitude of ways Stiles has earned his appreciation. 

He pushes his fingers into the boy's short, sweaty hair. Shares it like this because Stiles doesn't need a twenty minute explanation. He's smarter than that; he already knows. Anyway, Derek wouldn't explain. Stiles' hand trails slowly down his chest as the boy pushes closer, their bodies comfortably, post-orgasmically conjoined. Stiles body answers the love is mutal. Stiles _would_ count the ways. He would, terrifyingly, put it in iambic pentameter in a bound volume of _What Derek Hale Means to Me_ and go on to make the full set of every member of the pack.

Derek prefers Stiles' tongue in his mouth.

"I should get out of you," Stiles says in a friendly way, less smug, more in line with his usual banter.

Derek scoffs, but hisses as Stiles pulls out, feeling of a cock dragging out of his ass different after he's come; more intense.

Stiles slips out from under the covers, hops off the bed and goes to throw the condom away in the bathroom, leaving Derek missing the body heat. He's not, except on his life, going to admit he wants post-coital touch, some holding, that he likes the whole nine yards. He knows Stiles. Stiles may come out and say 'Let's watch a movie' and then they're going to put their clothes on and watch a movie, moment over. That's Stiles. Sassing in the face of danger, internal defenses holding strong against mutilated bodies that turn from victims into mysteries to be unraveled, lying as easily as breathing. That's not _all_ there is to Stiles, but dispassion, a sometimes-stunning coolness toward his reality is the default setting.

Derek stretches his legs out; winces; waits an interminable less-than-a-minute. He doesn't choke down his breath of relief when Stiles actually gets back into the bed, rolls over and reaches out to touch him, delicately tracing the strong line of his neck.

He's rolled over into the territory of a mystery. He seriously doesn't mind.

\----

Stiles wets his lips, looking at Derek's face, at the gaze that's studying the ceiling thinking Derek thoughts, then looking at the bare skin above the covers not contributing to replenishing their nest of body heat Stiles just depleted. It took the bathroom to go through the _I got laid_ , the self-scrutiny in the mirror to see if anything visibily changed, and then the _I got fucking laid!_ His mind's already revved back up to Stiles speed.

"What was that thing you did where you bared your neck?"

Derek's eyes roll toward him, head tipping in his direction. He watches Derek size up how to put it.

"You were scared of me. Don't expect to see it again. Ever."

"Not even in a kinky way?"

The wolf's face says _Seriously, Stiles?_

"What do you know about 'kinky'? No. Two words: Submissive urination."

Stiles gapes.

"That is disgusting."

"Yeah," Derek says. He takes a minute to himself which Stiles allows him because it means Derek's planning to produce more than that for his personal edification, something he can't always rely on the guy for. "I've never explained it to you," Derek says. That means he's explained it to at least some of the others. "The tattoo on my back? It's a reminder that Alpha, Beta and Omega are all states any one wolf can achieve..."

"It's a triskelion," Stiles thinks aloud. "I'm sort of surprised. I didn't expect Omega to be right there with the other two."

"Right. My body can speak in any language," Derek explains, although Stiles is still hung up on what that means. "You can't understand, because you're human," Derek says, but: "I don't think Scott or Isaac would understand, either. We've never had an Omega to model it for them." Better. "Trust me, Stiles, Omega signaling isn't for roleplay."

That's digestible. With the information on the table Stiles latches on quickly to the massive breach in their dominance hierarchy Derek just perpetrated.

"Thanks. For making you not terrifying for a minute. Clearly I don't know what that took."

"Which is why you're the only person who will ever see it. Once."

That takes time to sink in. Derek's right. He can't get it. He doesn't feel the pedantic need to point out that's not just because he's human but because, not to flatter himself, if they pinned up some posterboard and actually drew the dominance hierarchy out he's above Isaac and above Lydia and is in an indeterminate position with Cora but he's pretty sure he could actually snap his proverbial or real teeth and she'd fall in.

Where he and Derek and Allison stand, that's complicated. Allison brings the battle tactics. Stiles brings the meta-analysis. Derek cuts through their bullshit when a simple solution will work.

The cover sloughs away from the darkness within without warning. Stiles no longer catches his breath, no longer cringes in pain. He lets it in, allows it to color his vision. He sees Derek in shades of death, powerful but with an Achilles' heel on his ribcage, just below his heart, where Stiles could slide the dagger in. Up. Unmake him. Derek loves too much, with too much desperation. Grime obscures the wolf's vision. Blinds him to putting himself in harm's way. Like Deucalion, he relies on his pack, on Scott, Stiles and Allison but Isaac and Lydia, on Cora, too, to be his eyes.

The darkness never just passes, but Stiles brings the image of himself in the mirror to the forefront of his mind. Smiles remembering his pride.

"Hey. I'm not a virgin! Are we good?" he says; it's not a cover-up, it's another dimension. One his brain supplies an important query in: "Wait. Was _I_ good?"

"Better than I expected," Derek says dryly, unaware. He can't understand.

"Which—"

"Both."

Stiles discovers his hand has found something to play with. It's a nubby little piece of Derek's skin he's twisting back and forth. He grins.

"You have nipples. Look at your nipples."

Derek rolls his eyes in exhaustion. Clearly not physical exhaustion. He's at his Stiles saturation point.

Srs bsnss time.

"So I'm coming over more," he announces. "With or without benefits."

"My arrest record is already long enough."

Stiles objects on principle!

"Allison and Scott had secret sex under way, way more threatening conditions. Fuck. My dad being the sheriff is a plus here. He's not seriously going to arrest you for having sex with me. He might discharge a firearm into you, but he would know I would be unlivable if he turned my boyfriend into a registered sex offender."

"I haven't said I'll have sex with you again," Derek says irritably. Stays irritable – which is semi-hilarious because clearly everything Stiles' hand does keeps him physically placated in the extreme. "Stiles. You just had an orgasm. Do you have anything that even looks like an off switch?"

"No. Nothing. But liquor makes me slur."

Derek rolls onto his own side. Stiles discovers himself being rolled over; it shakes a little of the shadow off.

"Come here," the wolf says like Stiles has a _choice_. At least, without reprimanding him. He's the little spoon now with Derek's arm cinched over his chest, not an iron bar but snug. "Listen to me breathe." Whoa. Seduction voice. Stiles theoretically knew it existed. Its soft promise shudders through his body. "Breathe with me. Feel my chest inflate," Derek says. It's so much of a saving grace Stiles is ridiculously inclined to obey. "Close your eyes. Focus. Let your heart slow down with mine." Closing his eyes. His body falls in synch with Derek's with unsurprising ease. They fight together. Following Derek's cues demarks the fine line between life and death. Binds him to life. "We're going to sleep. You're going to sleep. I just came, there's a living body in my bed and I want to sleep." Hey, hey, hey! Hey— "— _No._ I don't drag unliving bodies into my bed."

Stiles smiles sleepily.

"You're kinda great."

Derek leans close, lips at Stiles' ear.

"No virgin sacrifices."

\----

Derek knew lying in holding a sleeping Stiles had an expiration hour. They live on different schedules. Derek biorhythm obeys the rise of the sun, rendering him awake and alert an hour before sunrise. Stiles' obeys the laws of being seventeen, which Derek has had time to consider might evolutionarily involve not exposing himself to crepuscular hunters like wolves. He's not sure.

For hours the wolf drifted in and out of full, alert consciousness, the scent off the back of Stiles' neck an intoxicant lulling him into complacency. Humans bathe too often. Sweat, skin oil and the bacteria that interact with them have revealed Stiles' natural body odor, unique across seven billion people, up close. Okay, Derek could always stick his nose in Stiles' armpit but years of human conditioning say **that would be weird.**

Aside from the relaxing smell of pack, of home, something the new furniture smells do not provide – Beacon Hills _is_ home, since he was born and forever – he'll take any one up available on tracking Stiles.

Now Stiles is awake. He should be passive because he hasn't had his Adderall, right? No such fucking luck.

"Regardless whether I'm naked and also sexual with you again, buy lube. Seriously," Stiles says, still underneath his arm, just done with yawning and wriggling around, doing no favors for Derek's cock. "Your dick will thank you when you're masturbating." Derek grunts, pushing him away. He masturbates in the shower. A thing he wants to be doing right now.

Stiles squirms around to face him, smile particularly relaxed, because no Adderall.

"Guessing Cora already knows everything since she has smelt me many times before. Casually. Normal, casual smelling." Derek doesn't know why Stiles needs to qualify that. Stiles' eyes widen. "Hey. We could run away to Switzerland. You can consent to gay sex at sixteen full stop."

Consent. Obviously it's an issue. Except it's not. He recognizes it as Stiles' way of checking if it's going to weigh on his mind all week.

"If I had any question whether or not you knew what you were doing I wouldn't have touched you."

"End of story. Good enough for me." Stiles smiles like a guy who needs immediate commitment to a psyche ward. "We can move on to how much you clearly love to bottom. _Totally sweet._ You were making these sounds like I had no idea you would ever make. If we weren't naked here, now, I would not believe I heard that."

"Time to get dressed," Derek says curtly, rolling out of bed. He stands and stretches, pushing his arms toward the ceiling, only aware of what he's doing too late because he doesn't think like Stiles thinks. Because a sexual part of him wants things he **did not** give it permission to want.

He's grateful Stiles can't see his face go red.

"Oh my _god,_ " Stiles says on cue. "That's glorious. Your ass is glorious. I can't believe I tapped that. I deserve a medal. Or a certificate. One I can frame. I need a framed certificate."

"Stiles," Derek rebukes without turning around, waiting for the heat to go out of his cheeks. "Cora's home."

"I know that. I knew that. She probably gets up at like five," Stiles dismisses. Derek can hear him physically waving it away. "I don't understand the relevance. You knew she would know and she has to objectively understand the glory of your ass."

"Stiles," he warns, shooting him a look now. He's dimly aware he hasn't _stopped_ showing off his ass.

Whatever.

"Getting up. Getting dressed. Not boasting to your sister." That changes on a dime once Stiles starts searching out his clothes. "—totally boasting to your sister. Practicing my boasting smile."

He is.

Derek has turned around now. So he has a semi. So does Stiles. Bodies go in for naked wriggling.

"You have to tell Scott."

That halts the boy's 'boasting smile'.

"I do?" He rapidly switches to piecing together this new revelation.

"You've been talking about the wrong authority figure. If Scott says don't touch you, I don't touch you."

"Right," Stiles says, face showing it all clicking. "Purchase your pardon from the Alpha, who also happens to be Scott. Got it." He starts picking up his clothes. So does Derek. "Scott has total control over your sex life. How weird is that? I get this one. In the wild nobody but Alphas even mate. He'll be cool. He, too, knows I will be unlivable if he cockblocks me."

"I just don't want any misunderstandings," Derek warns as he tugs his jeans up his hips and zips his fly.

"I will be explicitly clear."

That's ominous. Derek does not want him to be _explicitly_ clear.

Stiles shrugs, then spelunks his way into his shirt, lightly toned abs disappearing.

"You do not comprehend Scott's ability to talk about Allison. You may think you grasp the word 'endless' but you don't. My ability to talk was eclipsed by his intense mooning over Allison. He will be cornered alone. Far from help. In a place no one can hear him scream." Actually, Derek has no complaints anymore. He's sold on Scott deserving everything he gets. He hasn't counted the number of times his life was unnecessarily in danger because Scott wouldn't get off the Allison freight train. "Scott is the single last person to talk about our sex lives," Stiles goes on. "I'd worry about Cora, fyi. She just did girl's night with one Lydia Martin. There lies a slippery slope. The slipperiest. We'll know mathematically how far she slid when we see the color of her fingernails."

Derek stands motionless staring at Stiles, waiting for the world that just lurched under his feet to go still so he can throw this sudden sensation of vertigo, nothing like any surprise before. He's still listening to Stiles. He does listen to Stiles; he has to filter the stream of information for actual content, but he eventually discovered valuable content hides in Stiles' endless babbling. This revelation has no ties to Stiles' exact words, but is total. He struggles with all it means.

"You okay?" Stiles asks, brows jumping up.

The man walks up to him. Briefly looks him over to make sure nothing supernatural has him in its grasp. He looks up: calm, mature, understanding. He touches Derek's chest, only fingertips, eyes softening, nothing but serious.

"You know I'm here for you. You know, in an emotionally supportive capacity which could be expanded," he promises, exactly what Derek believed he would say. He looks young again for a moment, coupled with uncommon honesty and a deeper self-understanding. His voice softens. "I'm always looking out for Scott. It'd be new if I had somebody there for me like that. I'd like that. Especially if it was you."

It all collapses into place. The new world order. All Derek's preternatural senses concur and his soul accepts that there's an adult in front of him, capable of being overwhelmed by teenage emotions but resolute, purposeful, slowly converting the teenager like the bite converts the human to the wolf.

He voices the question he already knows the answer to.

"Have you thought about becoming Scott's emissary?"

"I haven't worked up to talking to Deaton." Didn't miss a beat. They come out like the most natural words in the world.

"I'm only saying if you were, I'll be here," Derek says, grave. "I'm sure a lot of the training is strictly Druid to Druid. But if you were going to shoulder that kind of responsibility..." Stiles is. Derek doesn't know how he didn't see it happening. How the man's voracious consumption of knowledge had begun to transform him into the most human of lynchpins. Prepared him to assume the mantle only a human can assume. "If you do, I'm right here. I'll make you a key to the apartment," Derek vows, filled with solemnity. "If you don't, I'll be here too."

He doesn't have to say that one, but he needs Stiles to sleep sound knowing this is because of who he is, not what he could be.

"Sweet," Stiles crows, hand dropping, lips bursting into a grin. "I just heard 'liquor stash'!"

Derek smacks him across the head.

**Author's Note:**

> I was asked for [Scott's reaction.](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/4315671)


End file.
